


Stay Awake (Dreams Only Last for a Night)

by nmbnss



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Angst, Dreams vs. Reality, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homelessness, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Mild Gore, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post 1x13, Reincarnation, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, but he's a cinnamon roll too, gonna finish this now, raphael has a gang, simon is a cinnamon roll, updates used to be slow but I swear I'm a changed woman now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nmbnss/pseuds/nmbnss
Summary: The first time it happens, there's nothing unusual about it.Though Simon supposes that with things like these, it's always a matter of perspective.Most people – people who aren't Simon, that is – would most likely consider having the same, almost disturbingly lucid dream for days in a row slightly bizarre.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, you have no idea for how long I've been wanting to write this. And look, I finally did it! This is my first time publishing anything on here, finally.
> 
> Title is from the song "Stay Awake (Dreams Only Last for a Night)" by All Time Low.
> 
> Dreams are in italics in case anyone gets confused. Other than that... Well, I'm sure you'll get the hang of everything pretty soon. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

 

 

 

 

The first time it happens, there's nothing unusual about it.

 

Though Simon supposes that with things like these, it's always a matter of perspective.

Most people – people who aren't Simon, that is – would most likely consider having the same, almost disturbingly lucid dream for days in a row slightly bizarre.

 

In relation to waking up six feet underground with nothing but darkness and dirt around you (and the panicked observation that _there is dirt everywhere, no air,_ and you shouldn't even be able to breathe at this point, and – yes, then you realize that you are in fact not even breathing to begin with), the list of things that can actually shock you decreases dramatically, though. And having a weird dream doesn't qualify for it, no matter how real said dream might feel. So, actually, scratch all of the above. There's nothing unusual about it, full stop. Weird dreams happen. And Simon has always had a vivid imagination.

 

Though, in all honesty, the dream isn't a particularly interesting one. He's just walking around the city, on the search for… something, he isn't even sure what; and it's blurry at first. Simon wakes up barely remembering what the dream was about. Forgets about it completely minutes into the day. It's not like with one of those huge, complex, enthralling dreams that could be full-on standalone blockbusters, where you wake up absolutely mindfucked to spend the rest of the day trying to figure it out.

 

But then it happens again.

 

The same dream. The same plot. Simon is walking around the streets, harsh wind rumpling up his hair, and he's looking for something; and he's not really sure what it is he's looking for. What makes it weird is that that's all. Nothing else. Nothing happens. No interaction, no change in scenery. Not even any familiar faces around him. It feels like hours of walking, searching, nothing.

 

So, okay, maybe it is slightly different from the Ordinary Weird Dream. Maybe Simon does think it's a little unusual when it happens for the third night – or, well, day – in a row.

He decides it's a problem for another time to deal with. He has enough problems, and enough time to deal with every single one of them, as it is.

 

But then it happens again.

 

And again.

 

 

 

 

 

Everything had started going to hell with a door flying open and “alright, Salmon, time to pack your bags! We're moving out of here.”

 

Because Magnus Bane is a horrible person. With no sense of empathy and the human need for morning coffee. Or, well. Vampire need for an evening glass of blood? Same difference.

Simon doesn't even bother rolling over to look up at the cruel intruder. “You do realize salmon are a species of fish.”

 

“Fascinating, Sally. You can tell me more facts about the animal kingdom while you're packing.”

 

So, this is bad. This is _really_ bad. Simon had known it was bound to happen sooner or later, but – well. No. This is _bad._

 

He can't stay with the shadowhunters. It makes sense, he's seen it coming. Seen it coming in the subtle, yet persistant glares following him whenever he's walking around the institute during the narrow window of their shared waking hours. Seen it coming in the muffled whispers, _why is that Downworlder still here? - Doesn't he have anywhere else to go?_ And, the worst of them, _how can we trust that guy? He betrayed his own clan, who tells us he wouldn't do the same to us anytime?_

Simon tries to pretend he doesn't hear it. Tries to ignore their words, along with the pang in his chest coming along. It's ridiculous, he thinks. For shadowhunters, they're amazingly unaware of the fact vampires have an excellent sense of hearing. And that's just common sense. Even a Mundane who has as much as watched the Twilight movies (Simon has never. Well, once, with Rebecca. Maybe twice. That doesn't count.) knows as much.

Or maybe, he realizes then, maybe Simon hearing them talk behind his back is exactly what they want.

 

The shadowhunters are always busy, now more than ever, carrying out missions, getting themselves into trouble. And not just themselves, Simon can't help but think with a twinge of bitterness. A week had passed after Clary and her friends having freed Camille with Simon's help, and Raphael basically kicking him out of the clan in return. (And he stops himself from thinking about that before it can fully take over his thoughts. Simon hasn't found the time to deal with the whole _what the hell have I done_ yet, simply because thoughts like these are bound to lead to something more of a _what if I hadn't?_ And he isn't planning on dealing with that anytime soon. If there is one thing Simon has learnt during the past weeks, it is that there is no gain in driving yourself crazy with a collection of _what if_ s _._ What's done is done, and he knows for a fact he was making the right choice when he decided to help Clary and Jocelyn. He knows.)

 

The shadowhunters don't want him sticking around their base, is the point. While most of them aren't even trying to hide that fact, Simon soon catches on the more subtle hints. Is it through the pained look in Clary's eyes when she had hugged Simon tightly and out of nowhere the morning before, as he was just heading back to bed while everyone else was getting up and ready, mumbling about how sorry she was for everything having turned out the way it did. Or is it the unsure undertone in Isabelle's usually so reliant voice when they do talk about Simon's future plans concerning Raphael and the clan for a few uncomfortable minutes ( _Very_ uncomfortable minutes. Simon has no idea what he's going to do, so all he does is shrug and try not to look too miserable). Or is it just the, though barely visible, apologetic glint in Alec's silent stare when they pass each other in the hallway. Simon gets the message loud and clear the moment it is decided.

It's not like they specifically want him gone – of course not, they're his friends – but. But they must follow the rules, respect whatever the other Shadowhunters decide on. Especially in times of war against their own kind, when solidarity is needed more than ever.

_It's called being loyal to your people._

Simon dismisses the thought before it can hit too hard.

 

So in all honesty, it's not a shock. They had given Simon a bed, knowing there was nowhere else for him to go, some fresh clothes to change into. No promise of a prolonged stay. He is a vampire, after all, a downworlder; and they are shadowhunters, and things just don't work that way. And the more Simon thinks about it (something he decidedly keeps at a minimum for now), the more he realizes that the whole thing had just been poorly thought through from the very beginning.

He had always been part of the plan. Just never part of the reward.

 

He can't really blame them, either. It's just, well. It's just what it is. A downworlder can't live with shadowhunters.

 

And maybe, he thinks that evening, letting his eyes roam through the room and realizing there really isn't anything for him to pack in there, not a single thing of his own, maybe he even feels a little relieved. In the strangest of ways. He isn't eager to leave this place. Definitely isn't eager to part ways with Clary again and having to find a way to deal with life on his own. But he knows, somewhere deep down, that it's better that way. Or maybe not _better_ , but – obligatory. The shadowhunters belong with each other, they watch out for each other, they are _like_ each other. There is a common base of understanding anyone who just isn't one of them wouldn't be able to grasp. And no matter how much he cares about all of them – especially Clary and Jocelyn, they're family – there would never be a way for Simon not to feel out of place.

 

(And that's Raphael's lessons talking right there, Simon realizes. _“_ _One thing_ _I need_ _you_ _to_ _understand_ _before_ _we will start practicing anything_ _,”_ _and he remembers_ the glint in his eyes, alertness, determination – Simon had soon learned that this was Raphael's this-is-very-important-and-I-am-the-one-responsible-for-it-so-you-better-pay-attention-or-else face –, _“_ _is that I can teach you a lot of things._ _T_ _hings you wouldn't_ _know_ _how_ _to_ _even_ _imagine_ _from_ _the point you're at now._ _A_ _nd I'm going to._ _But_ _I need you to know that_ _a_ _ll_ _of it, everything I can teach you, is worth nothing_ _if_ _you don't realize what_ _it is_ _you_ are _now.”_

Simon had opened his mouth to reply immediately, eager to give Raphael whatever he wanted to hear (because of course he realized. Yes, there had been a crisis right after being turned – Simon thinking of himself as a monster, a freak – but he had long since come to terms with his new life, or, well, call it whatever, and thinking about eternity didn't make his stomach turn anymore – or at least not as badly) so they would go on and talk about all those awesome things Raphael was going to teach him.

Raphael had held up his hand to stop Simon before he could say a thing, however. “ _And I_ _'m not talking about_ _you_ _being a vampire. A downworlder. I'm not talking about how you are dead_ _, or how you are_ _going to live forever._ _I'm talking about_ _you being a part of us._ _Part of the clan._ _T_ _he family_ _. And this is nothing I can teach you, fledgling,_ _but it's what you need to keep in mind before anything else. You're_ _of our kind_ _now_ _,_ _and we are your home_ _._ _”_ )

 

Simon tries to keep memories like this one fleeting. He really does.

 

 

So apparently, as it turns out, the new change of plans is to have Simon move in with Magnus. “There's guest rooms,” the warlock explains when Simon repeats the idea in disbelief, and he's seriously starting to wonder just how low his friends are valuating his observation skills to be.

Because the expectant look Clary is giving Magnus, the wary expression in Magnus' eyes as he's looking at Alec and the awkward glance Alec is directing at anything but the two of them aren't subtle in the slightest. At least Izzy is giving Simon a somewhat sympathetic smile. “You always are and always will be welcome around here, of course. And Magnus might say guest room like it's some sort of broom closet, but I'm pretty sure it's gonna be twice the size of the room you've been sleeping in for the past few days.”

 

Simon is definitely not an ungrateful person. He was raised to count his blessings, and it's not that he doesn't appreciate the gesture. He does, really. But. Well. Magnus and him might not be on unfriendly terms (put aside the whole ridiculous name thing that has stopped being funny years before Magnus even came up with it, and that says a lot considering he has been around for _a while_ ), but they aren't exactly the closest friends either. Magnus would be taking him in out of… guilt, or pity, and… Simon doesn't want to be a burden. He's sick of it. Sick of having everyone else around him decide on where he should go, what he should do, sick of having them think he can't do that for himself. And maybe it's just him being stubborn, exhausted after a week of feeling out of place, too proud for his own good. But Simon doesn't want them thinking of him as someone who needs to be taken care of. He got himself into a tight situation. He can get himself out of it again.

(Or at least he hopes so.)

 

So, well. “I don't know,” he says lamely. Clary's head shoots up immediately. She frowns, Magnus raising his eyebrows at her in what could mean something like _wow, rude,_ but also _told you so_. “It's not because I don't want to stay at your house,” Simon adds quickly, looking at Magnus with what he hopes is a very thankful expression. “Like, I'm totally cool with that. I mean, more than just cool! As long as you are, of course. It's just like, um. It's kind of weird? Me being up at night and all that, while you're asleep and I'm just walking around the house with all your stuff there and– oh, me having to feed and. Oh shit, that's another problem I haven't been thinking about, like, wow. Um. But, you know, the thing is-”

Simon coughs. The thing is that he can't get to the point. Has no idea how to find the right wording without sounding… ungrateful.

“Yeah?” That's Alec. He's wearing an expression that could be relief, but also guilt or pretty much anything, really. Simon isn't familiar with Alec's expression range. Clary looks straight up horrified.

“The thing is that I already found a place to stay,” Simon blurts out. And, wow.

Blatant lie.

 

 

 

Anyway, that's how it had all started going to hell. So now, Simon is standing in front of his house, old home, keys in hands, watching as someone turns on the lights of the bathroom upstairs.

 

He's going to need the key to the band practice room (thank g– he remembered about it). It should be in the drawer of his bedside table, where he keeps the picks and spare strings. Maureen had asked him to make a second one for her, so he hadn't gotten to put the key on his ring with the others yet. An irrational pang of guilt hits Simon at the thought of her. He misses Maureen. He had kind of been a really shitty friend to her.

 

He needs the key now, however. It's not like there's gonna be any band practice anytime soon (and there's another pang in his chest at that thought, one of pure grief. He misses the music. He _really_ misses the music). Some fresh clothes. A charger, definitely. And maybe his laptop too, while he's at it. Realization doesn't hit until he's standing there, waiting for the light to be turned off again, footsteps distancing, down the stairs. Vampire hearing _is_ really useful. That's when realization hits.

 

He is completely on his own now.

 

 

 

 

The band practice room is some sort of garage he and Maureen had rented downtown back then. Maybe not in the best neighborhood, but they had been pretty pumped once they had finally saved up enough money to afford it. Simon likes thinking back to that day, the night after an incredible gig – they had made some money, and he remembers sitting on the floor in Clary's room, just her, him and Maureen, emptying the huge metal piggybank filled with months worth of saving conscientiously into their middle. He remembers counting the money, calculating the total. Then counting all of it again, and again, in disbelief. Then getting up without a word, a huge grin on his face, strolling over to Clary's bed to retrieve his jacket from where he'd thrown it across carelessly before.

“ _Hey! Where are you going?”_

Simon remembers turning dramatically, a huge, shit-eating grin on his face, to hold up the paper on which he had circled the total in bright red. _“Gotta go nail down that shitty garage.”_

 

Simon supposes the shitty garage will do for now.

The room is heated (though, well, he could go without that just as well), has running water, a couch, some hardware stuff as you would expect in a garage (the original owner hadn't bothered taking everything out) and even a little bathroom area with a rusty shower. It will do for now. It has to.

 

Another perk is that the garage has no windows. There's a floor lamp in the corner next to the couch and that's that. No way for sunlight to get in. So, all in all, Simon is pretty proud of himself. This is good. This is perfect.

 

He might be alone, and completely secluded in a neighborhood surrounded by sketchy back alleys and rundown night clubs, unable to leave the room except for the late night hours, but. Well.

At least he _is_ somewhere.

 

 

 

And then it happens again.

 

 

 

 

_It's freezing. Simon is sitting, hunched shoulders, fists tight around the cold in the pockets of his thin jacket. It had all started with a slight drizzle, gradually becoming heavy and heavier, until it was soaking his hair and dripping down his face. Few minutes had passed before Simon decided he couldn't stay on the street out there – he might be desperate, but he doesn't have a deathwish. Getting sick is something he can't afford._

 

_His clothes are soaking wet regardless. And he might be inside now, but it's still freaking cold. This place doesn't seem to have any heating whatsoever._

_Which is strange, because judging from the sign on the outside of the building, this is a hotel. Well. Simon brings up his feet to hug his knees in an attempt to maintain some warmth as he looks around what seems to be the lobby. At least that would explain why there's not a single person in here._ It's freaking cold _._

 

_And he's hungry. God, he's hungry. Damn this weather. On rainy days, the lady from the fruit shop takes all the baskets inside. No chance of swiping an apple, or two, or something._

 

_Simon had had to force himself hard not to look up at the bright sign of the Friendly Maple as he was passing the street earlier. Warm, sweet, freshly made pancakes just sounded too good right now; too good to be true. Literally, when your name is Simon Lewis._

_He had changed to the other side of the street, so that the smell wouldn't reach his nose._

 

_Simon stays sitting on the tacky golden couch for less than five minutes before he can't take it any longer. So he gets up again, decides to take a look around. Because apparently, empty hotel it is. Maybe the administration had realized that they weren't getting any guests because of their heating problem and decided to take a break for a few days. (Which raises the question… then why had the front door been open?) Simon dismisses the thought. His priorities right now aren't to find this hotel's backstory._

_There must be a kitchen somewhere._

 

_It's a weird feeling, walking through the empty lobby into a hallway (every wall decorated with paintings of different sorts. They're all huge, and ancient, and for a low minute Simon thinks about how much money he could get by selling just one of them. But, well, unrealistic thinking. Also, he wouldn't. (There's a difference between stealing for wealth and stealing for survival. He had never wanted to do either, but, well. Simon supposes the least do, and wouldn't, was there another way)), eerie silence pressing down on him and filling the air with tense anticipation. His footsteps are the only sound filling the room, resonating loudly thanks to its high ceiling. That and the rain pattering consistently against the windows, blurring into indefinite rustle._

_It's a weird feeling._

 

 _The hotel doesn't_ look _abandonded. There's intact furniture everywhere, decorations, even, and everything might look somewhat… antique, like it has been here for ages – but on a closer look appears to be in a good condition. Simon carefully runs his finger over the surface of a dark wooden shelf. Not a speck of dust comes with it._

 

_So, this is weird. And maybe a little creepy. Simon bites down on his lip as he stops, looking around, listening. There must be someone here, keeping the hotel clean. Maybe they don't live in the building, just come by to clean it every day? Could be._

_Or maybe they're asleep somewhere. The building is huge, after all. What are the chances of running into someone right in the lobby? It's cold here, after all. Everyone must be in their rooms where it's warm. The front desk girl, too. Everyone is taking a nap. The weather is shitty and everyone's in their rooms, doing whatever, including the staff._

_That must be it, Simon decides. Maybe there's a bell to ring or something at the reception in case someone does come in looking for a room. He doesn't go to check._

_So. Kitchen._

 

_The hallway branches then, right side leading into a pompous stairwell – Simon assumes that's where the rooms are. He goes left, leaving the stairs behind. If he's right, everyone is going to be up there. He doesn't want to risk being caught. (Though technically, he's not even committing a crime here. This is a hotel, the door was open, it's not like he's breaking in or something!)_

_Apparently, it's his lucky day, because Simon soon finds the hallway to lead into what he assumes to be the dining hall. He can barely make out a massive, wooden table and some chairs standing around it – other than that, the room is completely dark. Here and there, a slit of light peeks out from behind heavy curtains._

_Weird._

 

_That's when he hears it. Simon freezes. What was that? It sounded like someone was... sneezing? He doesn't dare moving an inch. Holding his breath, hands curling into fists to keep them still, Simon turns his head slowly to look down the hallway from where he came from. Nothing. It's all silent now. All Simon can hear is the rain pattering against the windows, and his heart beating irregularly in his chest._

_He must be hearing things. He's nervous, and hungry, and cold, and this building is creepy, so his imagination is running riot. That must be it._

 

_A minute passes and nothing happens, two minutes and it's still quiet. It's Simon's stomach that breaks the silence eventually, grumbling in protest, and he sighs as he finally decides to move on to the door next to the dining hall. He's clearly driving himself crazy here. For all he knows, it would make sense for the kitchen to be right next to the dining hall, so he can just get in, check for food and then leave right away. The sooner he can get out of this place, the better._

_He might just be imagining things at this point, but still. It's freaking creepy._

 

_Luckily, he's right, and the door does indeed lead to a kitchen. It's dark in there, just as in the dining hall, and Simon soon finds the light switch on the wall next to the door._

 

_The room turns out to be huge. It's all in black, black tiles, black furniture, the huge chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling – unnecessary for a kitchen, but weirdly enough not looking out of place at all. In its weirdly dim light, Simon can barely see any better. It takes him a moment to orientate himself, his eyes adjusting to the darkness to locate the oven, the fridge, a shelf filled with what looks like bottles of red wine. Fancy._

_The refrigerator is whirring. Simon bites down on his lip. Was the idea of someone actually living in here just a theory so far, and Simon happy not to know for sure, here is the confirmation. The fridge wouldn't be running if no one was there to use it._

_He decides not to dwell on it._

 

_A creak breaks the silence then. It's coming from somewhere, nowhere, indefinable. Simon holds his breath. It's a law of nature that everything sounds a million times louder when you're not expecting to hear it._

“ _Okay, calm down.” He's mumbling out loud now, trying to talk some confidence into himself, “old buildings produce sounds like these. Nothing unusual about it.”_

 

_Another creak. Simon moves a bit away from the door. “Okay,” he keeps on talking, because though the confident tone he was aiming for might not have come out too convincing, this silence is starting to drive him insane. “We check the fridge, take what we need. Then we get out of here. This place is creepy. Alright, let's go.”_

 

 _It isn't until his hand is gripping the handle of the fridge door, about to pull it open, that someone grabs his arm from behind. Simon_ jolt s _. His first reflex is to scream, but then the hand comes up to cover his mouth and_ – _fuck, he knew this was going to happen, he knew something felt off about this hotel, why didn't he_ leave _right away?! He's going to die now. He's going to die now, and panic is surging through his body in shockwaves as he turns around to face his attacker, and – he halts._

_Because the person standing in front of him doesn't look like an attacker at all._

 

_Simon blinks, warily, adrenaline still bubbling in his veins. It's just a boy, black curls, dark eyes, can't be older than Simon. There's a glint in his eyes, alertness, determination – though his expression is completely calm and collected. The boy moves his hand then, away from Simon's mouth to his own, index finger across his lips as a sign to keep quiet._

“ _Wha-” Simon is cut short when the guy jumps, his hand coming up to press over his mouth again, eyes widening before darting to the door and back in a gesture of_ be quiet if you don't want us to get company _. Simon nods slowly. He has no idea what's going on. The boy is looking around now, eyebrows furrowed, listening. And then, Simon hears it too. Footsteps. Somewhere, not anywhere near them, but unmistakably. The panic comes back. The guy curses under his breath. Simon vaguely registers that it doesn't sound like English. Then they're quiet again. The footsteps have stopped, but none of them dares to move. They both heard them. Simon is definitely not just hearing things. He doesn't have the time to dwell on it, however, because the next moment the guy looks at him again, pointing at Simon, then himself and taking a step towards the door. Just now Simon notices the wooden… post? Plank? he's holding in his other hand. Who the hell is that guy and what is going on here?_

 

 _The boy holds up his free hand then, forming an X with his index and middle finger as his eyes dart to the fridge and back to Simon, a gesture of… well,_ don't _. Simon wants to protest, but the guy furrows his brows and shows the silent sign again. Simon bites his tongue. He has no idea who that guy is and what he wants from him, and why they need to keep quiet in the first place, what kind of hotel is this anyway, who's in here, why can't they let anyone see them; what did Simon get himself into again? But for all he knows, the boy probably would have impaled him with that cane of his already if he wanted to. Apparently, his goal is to get the two them_ out _of here, though. So at least he's not a threat to Simon. He decides to trust him for now._

 

_Fair enough. That still doesn't help with Simon's growling stomach, though. And grabbing some food really quick won't make him run any slower._

 

_He turns before the boy can react, grabbing the fridge door handle to yank it open– and stumbles backwards._

_The fridge_ is _full. Bottles, jars, glasses, piled over each other, every single one of them filled with some indefinable, red liquid. Some of it looks clumpy, almost black, dry crust clinging onto the rim of the glasses. But it's not the sight that makes Simon want to vomit on the spot. It's the smell. Stale, rotten smell._

 _It smells_ dead.

 

 

 

 

Simon jolts awake with an unnecessary gasp. There's panic tinting his disoriented thoughts, nausea, confusion.

It was the dream again. The same dream: Walking, searching.

Except that this time, it wasn't the same at all. Simon opens his eyes wide and remembers interaction. A change in scenery.

 

A familiar face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, so,” Raphael starts, taking a sip from his hot chocolate while holding the other cup out to Simon. And Simon wants to keep up his manners, play the whole oh-my-god-you-didn't-have-to act, he really wants to. But also he is really fucking hungry and cold. So he decides to skip that for now, gratefully accepting what he's being offered.  
> Because hot chocolate is a gift from the heavens. And this one has whipped cream on top. And sprinkles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't want you guys to get confused by my use of italics/normal letters, so here's a little explaining:
> 
> I use italics for: Dream paragraphs, stressed words in the awake paragraphs, direct quotes from Simon's memories.  
> I use normal letters for: Awake paragraphs, stressed words(! not whole sentences!) in the dream paragraphs. (Whole sentences in normal letters within a dream paragraph aren't supposed to be stressed. They simply do not belong to the dream.)
> 
> I warned you, things might get confusing in the beginning. But you'll get the hang of it, I promise.

 

 

Simon tries to keep his cool about it. He really tries.

 

Which is why he's lying awake on the couch of the Shitty Garage, eyes fixed on that one dark spot on the ceiling where Clary had tried and succeeded to build that paint bomb from the pinterest tutorial ( _“_ _No way in hell is that gonna work.” - “Oh, yeah? Then you surely won't have a problem with me trying it out in the band practice room!”_ ) back then. Simon smiles fondly at the memory, ignoring the ache it brings along.

He misses Clary. Being kids together, not having to worry about a thing.

 

As of now, he certainly does have a thing or two to worry about. Though he really is trying to keep his cool about it.

 

So he had a dream about Raphael, in the Dumort, no biggie. Weird dreams happen. Except that Raphael hadn't exactly been _Raphael_ , and the Dumort hadn't exactly been the _Dumort._

 

And, okay. Maybe more than that: Dream Simon hadn't recognized either during the dream. Now that he's awake, he can easily link the stranger's face with Raphael's – though their faces might just be the only apparent similarity. Even what the boy in his dream had been wearing looked nowhere near to what the Raphael Simon knows would keep in his wardrobe, for starters. Just a plain t-shirt and jeans, nothing, well, expensive looking. And then the hair! Raphael puts gel in it every day, Simon has never seen him without. The boy's hair in the dream had been the same length, but – without the product to keep it back and out of his face – slightly curly; softer, somehow.

As for his behavior, Simon can't really tell. They hadn't exactly talked, but – and that's been bugging him since he has woken up this morning – Raphael had been holding a wooden stake.

Wooden stake as in _the only weapon known_ _to m_ _a_ _n_ _that can kill a vampire._ A sharpened one, even.

 

So what does that _mean_? (Simon has never been one to believe in things happening in your dreams to hold a certain 'meaning', in all honesty. They might tell you something about yourself, your subsconscious, at most. Nothing… mystical about it. At least he's always thought so. _Do_ dreams hold importance in the underworld? He has no idea. He should ask Clary.)

 

As for the Dumort, it _had_ looked kind of different. Simon can see it clearly in front of his inner eye, the hotel's furniture in his dream, the decorations – some of them he could recognize, others he had never seen before. For example the kitchen they'd been in. Simon is pretty sure that if the room does exist, he himself has never been in it. (Though, again, that realization only comes with waking up. In the dream, Simon hadn't recognized the place at all.)

  
That's another weird thing about the dream. Not just Simon seeing familiar, yet altered places and people without recognizing them – but also him waking up and being able to recall everything, every tiny detail, perfectly. Simon remembers every thought, every sensation. With most dreams, these things just fade moments after waking up.

But with this dream, Simon has found himself more and more lucid and aware of what's happening with each passing day.

Weird.

 

More than weird. Unsettling.

 

What's not an unusual thing for him to dream about, at least, is the whole him being human again thing – Simon shudders slightly as he remembers the cold he had felt, the numbing pain in his stomach, craving for something to eat (and it's not that Simon doesn't get hungry anymore now that he is a vampire – hell, it's probably even worse – but the hunger for blood a vampire has is something incomparable to just craving mundane food. Or maybe it's because in his life as a mundane, Simon had never really known what it feels like to be truly starving).

 

Which leads him to his next problem. And, for a change, this one has nothing to do with the dreams (and it's not like Simon can do anything about those, anyway): Now that he's awake, he _is_ hungry. Really, really hungry. In the vampire way, that is.

 

 

Now that he's got the living situation issue down, feeding is the next thing Simon needs to worry about. It's not like the Dumort has a drive-in for castaways. The last time he fed was yesterday morning, before leaving the Shadowhunters institute, and more than one Shadowhunter had given him a dirty look as he'd downed the liquid. They keep blood bags around in case of emergency, if someone gets injured, and feeding Simon through a week and a half hadn't exactly been in their favor.

Had been feeding him poorly, too. A glass a day. No wonder he's been feeling unrested lately.

 

Point is, he needs to get blood from _somewhere_. The Dumort is not an option; the Shadowhunters aren't, either. Simon briefly considers the odds of him being able to break into a blood bank without getting caught. He dismisses the thought before it can fully develop and lead him to stupid ideas.

 

He can take a day without feeding. Two, at most, though Simon has never tried that himself. Raphael had always kept an eye on him to make sure he's feeding properly.

(Simon remembers a day where he'd felt so disgusted with drinking blood – disgusted with himself – that he'd simply refused to. That was pretty early on. Raphael had been _pissed._ At the end of the night, when Simon had just gotten to his room on the way to bed, miserable and exhausted from a day without feeding, Raphael had come knocking at his door with a freaking _Thermos_ in his hands. _“You better drink this before going to sleep”_ were his only words, firm and demanding, as he practically shoved the thing at Simon who, confusedly, had taken it and before he could even give any sort of reply, Raphael was already gone.

 

The blood had been around room temperature. At first, Simon didn't get why Raphael didn't just put it in a regular glass. Why the bottle?

He had already downed half of it, hungrily drinking up what he'd been craving all day, before realizing that he hadn't even been thinking about the fact that this was _fucking blood_ in the bottle _._ The rest of it down, and Simon found that the realization didn't hit him painfully the way he had expected it to.

 

He asked Raphael about it the next night. Or, well, Raphael asked _him_ when Simon went to return the Thermos. _“Did it help?”_ His eyebrows slightly raised, he looked at Simon with an expectant expression (and maybe something more. Something like concern. Like worry).

“ _Did what help?”_

“ _The bottle – it's untransparent,”_ Raphael added, stating the obvious. _“So you can't see what's inside.”_

 

And Simon could swear, even now, thinking back to that day, that there had been something new to Raphael's tone. Or, at least, something _he'd_ never heard in the clan leader's voice before. Simon couldn't put a name to it, not back then and not now, and for an absurd moment the tone reminded him of the one his mom would use when he got sick as a kid. (Then he mentally slapped himself because Raphael and his mom couldn't be more different and this was just plain weird and what was he even thinking?)

And _“oh.”_ Simon remembers his own voice, stumbling over the words in realization. “ _So you- you thought of that? The blood in_ _a_ _bottle. I mean, so I won't have to look at it so it'd be easier to drink and – yeah,_ _wow._ _Makes sense. It did! Help, I mean, it helped.”_ He had laughed, embarrassed, but also truly… surprised. Raphael had actually thought of Simon's issues, found a way to solve them, when all _he_ had done was to drown in self-pity. Simon meant it when he offered the other a bright smile. _“_ _That was really thoughtful, thank you._ _And, um…_ _Would_ _you mind if I ke_ _pt_ _the bottle for a while?”_ )

 

 

 

 

He ends up almost texting Magnus. Almost, because there's an inner conflict going on and Simon ends up losing (winning?) it. On one hand, he knows the warlock would probably be happy to help him out. Because Magnus Bane is a good person, put aside the name thing and his lack of coffee appreciation.

On the other hand, and that thought hits Simon with full force on his first day in the garage, is that he is now officially independent. An adult living on his own. The circumstances might be different – a lot different – from the usual _growing up, moving out_ pattern one goes through when becoming an adult, but. Well. Simon will have to find a way to feed himself without help _eventually_. Because he has freaking _eternity_ ahead. If he asks Magnus for help now, he's going to do it tomorrow. And the day after that.

Simon can't live as an outcast vampire depending on other people to feed him through eternity. The thought terrifies him.

 

So, well. He might text Magnus later, if he really can't find any other way for now. He might just make a list, allow himself to ask for help five times. Or maybe ten. Nothing more. He hasto find a way on his own. He _has_ to.

 

For now, he's going to search.

 

 

 

 

It happens again before Simon can even register dozing off curled up on the couch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _The stick? I don't even remember where I picked that up from. Just dropped it in there.”_ Somethin g is shifting. Simon feels a little light-headed out of nowhere, blinking, _and the stranger raises his eyebrows at him in query. “You alright?”_

“ _Yeah, just.” Simon shrugs. “Thought I heard something.” Huh._

 

_It's still raining. They're walking, back down the street leading towards the town. Simon is shivering now, rubbing his arms in an attempt to sustain some warmth. Staying inside the building for twenty minutes at most wasn't enough for his clothes to dry. It's not because the image of liters and liters of blood piled up in that fridge are still haunting his inner eye. Definitely not._

_He grins through it, though. “Just hope they wont use it to get your fingerprints and hunt you down.”_

 

_The boy shudders. “Don't even say things like that. I'm just happy I got you out of there before you could grab a bottle of, um,_ red wine _and get in for a bloody surprise.” He raises his eyebrows at Simon, expression curious. “What were you doing in there anyway?”_

 

_Simon shrugs. “Looking for shelter from the rain. Then I got hungry. God, the sign said HOTEL. I wasn't expecting a satanist clubhouse.”_

 

_The boy grins. “Does anyone ever? Anyway,” he halts suddenly, waiting for Simon to do same before holding his hand out to him. “I'm Raphael. Nice to meet you.”_

“ _Simon.” Simon shakes his hand, noticing how warm it is compared to his own, freezing one. “Right back at you. Thanks for saving my ass.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waking up from an unexpected nap is always terrifying. When did you fall asleep? How long have you been sleeping for? What time is it now? What did you miss? That alone is pretty terrfying on it's own already.

Waking up from an unexptected nap with a brand new dream memory is about a hundred times worse. Simon is staring at his phone, trying to make sense of the article on _Dream Lexicon –_ _dream_ _symbols and what they mean._

“ Hotel: May symbolize your mother, or motherhood.” He groans. This makes no sense at all.

 

So it's not just Simon seeing random cuts of whatever alternative happening and Raphael wearing his hair in a different style. No, the whole thing is a continuous plot, picking up roughly where it ended each time Simon falls asleep. (Which, weirdly enough, is the only thing appearing kind of blurry in his memory. He doesn't remember  _ dreaming  _ about Raphael and him leaving the Dumort, but he remembers them doing it. It must be a memory provided by his dream self. Which is… it is unusual. He has officially reached the stage of admitting as much.)

 

So, okay. He and Raphael are sort of bros now and also Raphael has a _warm hand._ Meaning: He's human, just like dream Simon himself. And also a lot less… formal.

It's interesting. Though dream Raphael and real Raphael look exactly alike, dream Raphael does seem different. Younger, somehow. Though Simon remembers the authoritative aura he could sense around the clan leader in person just as much as he did in the dream.

 

Dream character lineup aside: Simon really needs to ask Clary about this. Just in case he's becoming the medium for some sort of prophecy here and no one ever gets to hear about it because he's too busy thinking about character implementation. He closes the phone browser with a sigh, texting Clary a simple _'_ _what's_ _up?'_

 

She doesn't reply immediately. And, well, naturally. It's in the middle of the night. Simon sighs. Seems like the prophecy is gonna have to wait.

 

 

Well. More time for him to get back to another urgent matter.

 

Simon decides that he can't exactly stay inside his garage all night if he doesn't want to die of boredom (or, well, starvation, in the long run), so he takes a walk around as soon as the sun has set, updating his inner map of the complex.

 

The Shitty Garage has a just as shitty neighborhood. The building itself is an ugly stone block, with several garages and store rooms in the back and some sort of late night bar in the front. Judging from a faded, once-reddish sign, there used to be a barbershop right next to it, back in the day. The garage complex itself is accessible through a narrow backyard.

 

Simon memorizes street signs, bars and their locations, groups of drunks hanging out on the streets in front of them and groups of junkies keeping to the narrow alleys behind.

 

It doesn't take him longer than half an hour to get bored. And also seriously frustrated.

 

He finds himself back in the band practice room three and a half hours before sunrise. He's tired already, locking the door from the inside before flopping down onto the couch. Simon sighs. He should have brought a blanket. Not minding the cold doesn't mean not being able to appreciate fluffiness.

 

 

So, this is bad. This is _really_ bad.

 

He has not the slightest idea where to get his blood from, how to spend the whole night on his own in this neighborhood, how to make this obnoxious headache go away. It's strange how unrested he's been feeling lately. Probably just the stress, or the lack of feeding, he muses. Still. He slept through the whole day, and then even had a nap later on (something he never does, mind you). Why does he feel like he hasn't been sleeping at all?

 

Something needs to be done about it. Clary still hasn't replied to his text, either. She must be sleeping, like normal people do at night. Or, well, most people. _Normal_ doesn't exactly apply to either of them.

 

 

Simon ends up rewatching Lord of the Rings. He falls asleep halfway into the second one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _Alright, so,” Raphael starts, taking a sip from his hot chocolate while holding the other cup out to Simon. And Simon wants to keep up his manners, play the whole oh-my-god-you-didn't-have-to act, he really wants to. But also he is really fucking hungry and cold. So he decides to skip that for now, gratefully accepting what he's being offered._

_Because hot chocolate is a gift from the heavens. And this one has whipped cream on top. And sprinkles. “God, I love you.”_

 

_Raphael raises his eyebrows, expression perfectly serious. “I would say something like shouldn't you at least let me buy you a drink first, but...” Simon snorts._

“ _You owed me this one for not letting me get a jar of those fresh snacks at the hotel.” He shudders at the thought. Joking about it still doesn't do much to make him feel any better about the image burnt into his mind. He changes the subject before it can get awkward. “Anyway. You were saying?”_

“ _Ah, right. So,” Raphael nods, using his free hand to gesture vaguely. “You need a place?”_

 

 

_Simon freezes. “Huh?” he asks (very intelligently). Because this conversation just got even more awkward. Because, well, yes, he does need a place._

_Raphael shrugs. “Figured as much. You're new around here, aren't you?”_

“ _Um. Yeah?,” Simon guesses unsurely. “No. Kind of.”_

“ _I knew it. The Dumort has been closed for years. If you're looking for a good hotel downtown–“_

“ _No,” Simon interrupts, shaking his head with an awkward chuckle. (No way in hell could he afford even the shittiest hotel around.) “No, I told you, I was just looking for shelter from the rain.”_

 

_Speaking of which, thank god, the rain has stopped by now. They're just leaving the gas station, equipped with the drinks Raphael bought for both of them and their clothes mostly dried, and Simon enjoys the mild sunlight on his skin peeking out from behind heavy clouds every now and then._

_His eyes close on their own accord as he finally takes the first sip from his cup. Heaven. When was the last time he had anything this good? “That's it,” Simon exclaims after taking another sip or two. “I can happily die now. This can't be topped.”_

 

_Raphael sends Simon a questioning look. For a second, Simon thinks the other is going to comment on his enthusiasm, but then his expression just turns into one of amusement. “Where are you staying, then?,” he picks up again instead._

 

“ _Why?” It comes out dismissive, and Simon cringes. “Just, um. Around,” he adds lamely, not wanting to sound rude. The truth is: Well._ Around _is really as specific as it gets. Raphael might just be a total stranger, but he still doesn't exactly need to know that._

 

_The other raises his eyebrows. “Define_ around.  _Got a long way home?”_

 

_Simon halts. The words do something, not burn, not sting. They just… register, and it hurts, numbly. From a distance._ Yes, I do . His head feels oddly light for a second, a feeling of  nausea or falling or maybe just having to sneeze, and _“What? No. I can just walk there.” He blinks. Something is shifting. Huh._

 

 

_The truth is, Simon doesn't even know where he'll be spending the_ next night _. Frank is an option, but also the very last one._

 

_Raphael nods, expression serious. “Asking because– well. Have you looked at the newspaper lately?”_

_Simon tilts his head in curiosity, and the other sighs._

“ _Kids have been disappearing_ around.” _He stresses the_ around, _giving Simon a pointed look. “Last week, my neighbor's son went to get some milk from the store in broad daylight. Still hasn't returned. And he's older than you-” he stops. “How old are you anyway?”_

 

_Simon shudders. Of course he's seen the news, heard about it from all sides, too. People have gone missing over the past few weeks. No one knows why, or where it is they're disappearing to._

_Eric claims that it all started with the maior's daughter because he made a deal with the devil. Eric also believes that the bus driver is possessed by a demon because the buses are never on time, so there's that. Either way, the issue is serious._

 

“ _I turned eighteen not too long ago.” Simon sighs. “And I've heard.”_

 

_Raphael raises his eyebrows. He's good at that expression. No wonder with the frequency of which he uses it. “I'm not asking to be creepy. If you got a weird way home, I'll tell someone to keep an eye out.”_

 

What? _Now it's Simon's turn to raise his eyebrows. Tell someone to keep an eye out? Who is Raphael, the New York head of security?_

 

“ _If, however, you_ do _need a place–“ Raphael shrugs, emptying his drink with a large chug to drop his cup as they pass by a trashcan on the sidewalk, “you can crash on our couch for a few days.” His expression perfectly neutral, he turns to look at Simon's disbelieving one. “Wouldn't want anyone rolling up in a gutter somewhere when my mother's cooking for twenty anyway.”_

 

_Simon blinks. This total stranger is offering him a place on his couch? “Um. What?” (Nice one, Simon. He mentally curses himself.)_

_And it's not that he doesn't appreciate the gesture. He does, really. But. Well. Raphael might seem like a decent person (and also he just saved his life back in the satanist clubhouse), but hell, they're total strangers. He would be taking him in out of… guilt, or pity, and… Simon doesn't want to be a burden._

 

_But also… He's sick of it. Sick of strolling around the streets aimlessly every day, trying to keep up some sort of dignity he doesn't have. And maybe it's just him being weak, exhausted after weeks of feeling lost, fearing for the night because he has no idea where he'll be spending it. Simon doesn't want Raphael, this total stranger, thinking of him as someone who can't deal with his shitty situation by himself. But it's also the simple truth, because that's exactly what he is, and Raphael doesn't seem to be judging about it either. He's just offering a place. So, in all honesty? Fuck this. He should take what he can get, and this is more than Simon could ever ask for._

_(And he_ didn't _even ask for it. Maybe it's a gift from god, or fate, or something. Good karma. Simon doesn't know all too much about those things.)_

 

_So, well. “That's a nice offer,” he says honestly, expression turning into a thankful smile. “No idea why you're doing this, but I'd be glad to.” Raphael's head shoots up immediately. He grins, almost in disbelief, like he didn't expect Simon to actually say yes. “Cool,” he nods then, simply. “Come on, I'll lead the way.”_

_Simon chuckles, embarrassed all of a sudden. “But only because it rained all day and my gutter is probably flooded.”_

 

 

 

 

“ _In times like these, we all need to watch out for each other.” The woman has long hair, black and curly like her son's, a kind smile on her face and flour all over her apron. She's looking at Raphael with a proud smile, and Simon feels shy all of a sudden._

 

_He can't believe this is really happening. Was Raphael's helpful offer an unexpected surprise, his mother's reaction upon seeing her son return with some total stranger in dirty clothes is flat out unreal.  
(“Oh, just in time for dinner. You brought a friend? Is he staying overnight?” Simple as that. Simon had shyly introduced himself, overwhelmed by such hospitality. Apparently, judging by his mother's lack of surprise, Raphael picking up homeless kids from the streets isn't a rare thing for him to do.)_

 

“ _Thank you for taking me in, Mrs….” He looks at Raphael with a helpless expression, but the other has already turned his back to Simon, walking into the kitchen to observe what's being cooked._

 

_The woman laughs. “Santiago. But please, call me Guadalupe.” She shakes her head in amused disbelief, sending Raphael an accusative look. “Did you not even introduce yourself to your friend properly?” Raphael just shrugs, looking into the pot with a gleeful expression._

“ _Uhh, when can we eat?”_

 

_ The house isn't big. It  _ _ seems stuffed, somehow,  _ _ though _ _ , a toy here, a single, striped sock there, every inch of the room filled with little signs of life. The fridge is full of scrawly masterpieces. Simon smiles at one that says 'best mama ever I lov you happy birth'.  _

_Then it stings._

 

_He doesn't register having zoned out from the conversation until Guadalupe nudges Simon's side and points over to the dinner table. “Can you help Raphael dish up? The boys will be back for dinner soon.”_

 

“ _Uh, yeah, sure.”_ _ he nods quickly, doing as he's being asked. Raphael grins as Simon's eyes grow big at the amount of plates waiting to be distributed. “Got a few little brothers.  _ _ Not twenty, but still _ _ a handful.  _ _ Y _ _ ou'll get along.”  _

_Simon smiles. He's not thinking about it when he says, quieter, maybe not even loud enough for Raphael to hear it: “I had a sister.”_

 

 

 

_Later, when Simon is staring at the ceiling, snuggled down into a blanket soft and warm and in utter disbelief, he pinches himself. He can't believe how nice this family is. How openly they accepted him at their dinner table, how naturally he got a blanket and a pillow afterwards, a nice warm shower. Some clothes to sleep in. He didn't even have to ask, and they hadn't asked any questions either._

_Simon can't believe how nice this family is._

 

_It might just be for this one, single night, or maybe two or three or even five – no solution in the long run, that much is clear – but it's already more Simon could ever ask for._

_He had forgotten what a home feels like._

 

 

_He gets up to look out of the window in the middle of the night. Not for a reason other than him having trouble falling asleep. He's still thinking about the events of the day, waking up in someone's dirty bed, strolling aimlessly around the streets in the rain, looking for shelter in that hotel. Meeting that weird stranger who saved his life._

 

_It isn't until his hand is gripping the handle of the window, about to pull it open for some fresh air, that someone grabs his arm from behind. Simon jumps, not having heard anyone approaching, as he turns around to face whoever came to find him._

 

_It's Raphael._

_He's tilting his head as he drops his arm only to cross both of them in front of his chest, looking at Simon with an unreadable expression. There's a glint in his eyes, alertness, determination – a little tired, maybe, but at the same time wide awake._

“ _I forgot to tell you something.” He's whispering, but somehow, he still manages to make it sound firm and demanding. “About what you and I saw today...”_

_He gestures vaguely, and Simon nods for him to go on. Apparently, Raphael can't find sleep either yet after the events of the day._

“ _You can't tell anyone. Especially not my family. Got it?”_

_Simon blinks. “Sure. Got it. Why would I?”_

“ _Good.”_

 

_Raphael is grinning then, and there's a different expression. Excitement. Adventurousity?_

“ _I need to go back there tomorrow, by the way. I think I forgot my stake.”_

 

_Simon blinks again. “You mean the_ stick  _you don't remember where you picked up from?”_

“ _Exactly.”_

 

 

 

_Later, way later, when Raphael has gone back to bed and Simon is lying on the couch, huddled up in blankets and waiting for sleep to find him, he realizes that for the first time in god knows how long, his plans for the next day aren't walking. Or searching. Or nothing._

 

_He and Raphael are going to_ do _something, go back to that weird hotel and find out whatever is going on there. And the idea might be incredibly stupid, irrational, suicidal. But_ it is something.

 

“ _If this is just a dream,” Simon whispers then, just to himself, “I don't want to–“_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .................................................................................................... oh well.
> 
> Second chapter up!
> 
> Props to those of you who notice my little parallelisms. There's some of them.
> 
> Feel free to say hi (or drop questions, critic, theories...) in the comments, I tend to leave long replies. Talking to readers is fun and fuel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, wait!” Simon hurries to get up, grabbing Raphael's arm before he can think twice about the gesture, “I like burgers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this thing has been on break for quite a while.
> 
> Reasons for this are  
> \- season two being out and me not getting to watch it yet (I hear there's not a lot of saphael in it, so I'm kinda meh :/)  
> \- i was a lazy ass and there's no actual excuse.
> 
> Point is, it's back, and it's summer and I have no social life so there's plenty of time for me to write. No worries, this fic isn't abandoned, and more is soon to come. 
> 
> (I changed the estimated number of chapters in total. I don't want to make the chapters super long, so there's going to be a few more of them.

 

 

Simon wakes up absolutely mindfucked to spend the rest of the day – _night –_ trying to figure it out.

 

“But seriously.” He's staring at Clary as if she was supposed to somehow know the answer to all of this. “Why Raphael? If there really is some sort of prophecy for the clan, shouldn't it be delivered to someone who actually is a part of it?” Frustration swings with his words. Clary sighs.

 

“I'm pretty sure that's not what it is. What kind of prophecy involves sleepovers and free hot chocolate?”

 

“That's just my creative mind shaping a more natural dream setting,” Simon tries weakly. He's taking another sip from his coffee (knowing full well that his stomach is going to send it straight back up again in a while. Maybe enough time for the caffeine to get into his system, though. Simon has no idea how that concept works. Do vampires get anything out of caffeine? Is there any other way for them to deal with the feeling of not having slept in days?).

 

Clary doesn't look convinced. “Raphael buying you drinks and inviting you over for dinner looks like a natural setting to you?”

 

Simon groans. She does have a point there – dream Raphael's behavior couldn't be more off-character. Hell, he had openly _flirted_ with Simon. _Smiled_ at him.

Clary grins as he tells her as much. “Him flirting with you is a new thing?”

 

“Very funny.”

 

His stomach rummages in protest as Simon takes another sip. It's so weird - how can he be so tired after having slept through the whole day?

 

At least his bag is filled with several bottles of blood now. Plastic bottles. Recyclable. Clary won't tell him how she managed to sneak those with her as she came to meet Simon in the shitty bar right next to his garage, but for once, he doesn't mind. This is going to get him through another week. Two, if he's sticking to one drink every two days. Which, honestly, is a drain. But the more time to figure out another way, the better.

 

 

“So maybe you should go back to Raphael.”

 

“I- _what?”_ Simon stares at his best friend in disbelief.

 

“I mean, he clearly is a main figure in this… story, or happening, or whatever it is you're taking part in. Maybe dreams like these are, I don't know, a vampire thing? Either way, if anyone could tell you about it, it would probably be him.”

 

“You do remember him kicking me out of the Dumort with an order to literally kill me. _And_ you, by the way. So no, thank you. I'd prefer solving my problems in a way that doesn't involve certain death.”

 

Clary sighs. “I'm just trying to be practical. I don't think the dreams are dangerous or something, but… well. What if it _is_ a vampire thing?”

 

“ _What_ if?”, Simon repeats, tone impatient. “News flash, I _am_ a vampire. Vampire things happen to vampires. I'd be glad if that's all it is.”

 

“I… look, I know that.” Clary sighs, looking tired all of a sudden. No, Simon realizes, she had been looking tired all along. There's dark circles under her eyes, her expression one of unconcealed worry. “I just want you to be okay, Simon. This dream thing might or might not be an actual issue, but _this_ ”, she vaguely gestures around the rundown bar, barely lit by humming neon lights, “this is. You having to live here. And the blood thing. I don't know a lot about vampires, I'll admit that, but I know they're not meant to live as lone wolves – no pun intended.

 

“And I might not know a lot about vampires, but god, I know pretty much everything about _you_. You're my best friend. And you're definitely not meant to live like this.”

 

 

The pang of guilt hits Simon with the force of a thousand slaps in the face. It's true; Clary went through the troubles of coming to see him in the middle of the night, sneaking bottles of blood out of her base and risking to get into trouble if anyone was to find out. Yet here he is, snapping at her for trying to work with him.

 

Simon looks down at his hands. “I'm sorry.”

 

“What? No, I didn't want to blame–“

 

“You're right. I mean”, Simon adds quickly, “I'm not going back to the clan. What I did was a pretty big deal. Raphael has no reason to take me back in, even if I'm having dreams about nice human him adopting, uh, homeless human me. But you're right. About this whole situation being… not okay.”

 

He shrugs, downing the rest of his coffee with a final cringe. “But it will be. I will be. I will find a way.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Promise.”

 

Clary smiles. It's a weak one, and not entirely free of all worry and doubt, but it's there. It's a smile.

 

“ _We_ will.”

 

 

 

 -

 

 

 

In fiction, ambitious speeches or bonding moments between friends or family always lead to a new wave of energy, motivation, and a following, obvious solution appearing out of nothing in front of the main character's eyes.

 

Simon probably wouldn't make a good main character. Or one deserving of a happy ending, for that matter.

 

When Clary leaves – she needs to sleep _at some point_ , after all – it's around three in the morning. Four more hours for him to kill on his own, and absolutely nothing plausible to fill them with.

 

What _do_ normal people do outsite at this time of the day? Excerpt for, well, clubbing, probably? Something Simon can do well without. He's not the type. And going out to eat? Well. Simon doubts any of the rundown bars around here serve cups of pure human blood. (Though judging by the look of some of them, he wouldn't exactly bet against it, either.)

 

The immediate pressure for finding blood is, for now at least, out of sight. Of course, he still needs to be keeping his eyes open, try to find a long-term solution. But for the upcoming week or two, Simon won't have to live in fear of starvation or – worse – an uncontrollable outburst of some sort that would result in him going on a spree. (It's supposed to happen sometimes, or so he's heard. Never any names, of course, but he has seen Raphael's wary expression toward certain clan members when the topic came up. Which it rarely did.)

 

All that aside, Simon is once again left with a lot of time to kill and absolutely no idea on what to fill it with. Walking down the same streets only counts as entertainment so many times before it gets old. If it wasn't as a matter of principle for him not wanting to stay in bed all throughout the day, he would just go back and sleep through the hours. He definitely feels tired enough to sleep for a month. At least.

 

 

So, eventually, Simon finds himself straying further and further away from the alleys wrapping around his garage, exploring a wider range and eventually reaching more lively parts of the city.

 

Usually, and that thought does pain Simon as much as he tries to push it to the back of his mind, he wouldn't be needing several hours to explore under normal circumstances. As a vampire, getting around the entire neighborhood in not much longer than a few minutes or so should be a given.

Would be – if Simon wasn't feeling like someone had hit his head repeatedly with a brick. Finally getting to feed again did help a lot, but he had soon realized that it didn't do much about his state of exhaustion.

Now he's been walking for almost an hour.

 

 

And Clary's words are still swirring around his head. _So maybe you should go back._

Simon sighs. It's not that simple, and he knows it. Of course, going back would be the easiest solution. It would solve all his current problems, the hunger and his worry on how to deal with it in the long run, the boredom spending his night hours alone and without company.

 

And the dream.

Even if it wasn't a vampire thing – at least Simon would be able to talk about it to _someone._

(Just not Raphael himself, obviously. Or at least not in precise detail.)

 

Everything would be easier.

 

 

So once again, Simon finds himself collecting _what if_ s.

What if he could find a way to go back and make up for his betrayal? What if he just went, hoping for Raphael to show mercy Simon didn't deserve? What if – and that's the most painful one, one he just can't seem to keep out of his mind for long no matter how hard he tries to think about literally anything else – what if he had never left?

 

Betraying the clan must have been the most stupid, most badly thought through thing he has ever done. (But he doesn't regret it, Simon reminds himself. He _can't_ regret it. Jocelyn used to be like a second mother to him, Clary is his best friend, how couldn't he have done everything in his power to help them?

The thought used to be a comfort. It's starting to become less and less of that.)

 

In his dreams, Simon realizes, it is Raphael picking him up from the street, taking him into his own home, providing him food and shelter and an objective. No comparable circumstances, of course – starting from the fact that in the dream, they both are human.

But really? It's not too different from real life. Who was the one to take him, Simon, into his own home when he didn't know where to go, the one to help him get used to feeding as a vampire? Who was the one to stop Simon from going insane, patiently nudging and explaining and even firmly pushing at him when Simon wanted to drop it all?

 

And yet. Simon is walking down another rundown street, looking exactly like the twenty others he has walked to get there, and he's alone. And the worst part? He doesn't have anyone else to blame. He _chose_ this. He was the one to pick betrayal. And now he has to live with the fair price.

 

Fuck these dreams. They are only there to remind Simon of all the things he's done wrong.

 

 

-

 

 

His phone rings at some point. After the initial shock has passed (Simon didn't know the thing was even still on and charged in the pocket of his jeans – no one but Clary ever really did contact him nowadays, anyway) he picks up and is surprised to hear no one but Magnus Bane on the other side of a line with a bright: “Good morning, Simona!”

 

“That one was really close,” Simon mumbles by reflex more than thought. “It's not morning though.”

 

“Good to hear you in a good mood,” Magnus says. “I just talked to Clary,” he adds, quieter. Simon can almost hear the frown in his voice.

 

“You did?” He asks, slowly. Simon doesn't think he has ever talked to Magnus on the phone before. How does the other even have his number? (That's not a real question. Simon isn't really surprised about that bit, in all honesty. But _why_ would Magnus want to call him?)

 

“Yes.”

 

Simon shrugs, waiting for Magnus to go on. The warlock sighs. “She tried to talk you into going back to Raphael, I hear.”

 

“Yeah. I told her no, of course. Don't worry, I don't have a deathwish–“

 

“She's right.”

 

“She–“ Simon halts. “She, _what?”_

 

“She's right,” Magnus repeats, firmly. “You should go back.”

 

Has everyone lost their freaking minds recently? Simon shakes his head in disbelief as he sits down on the low steps leading up to an abondoned-looking building on the side of the street. “I don't have a deathwish,” Simon says again, slowly. “Raphael wants me dead.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes! What, are you _not_? I stayed with the shadowhunters for a reason. I live in this fucking garage now for a reason!” Simon sighs, rubbing his head. It is starting to ache a little. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to– the thing is just–“

 

Magnus coughs, interrupting Simon's rambling. “I know Raphael gave an order to kill you. But. This can't go on forever, you know that, don't you? A vampire can't survive on his own for long. Maybe you should try to get back with the clan.”

 

“Do you think I don't know that? If it was up to me, I'd go back anytime. But I'm not willing to risk my life for it.” It's supposed to sound firm, or angry – or maybe simply like Simon is convinced of his own words. It fails.

 

“I just wanted to let you know my thoughts,” Magnus says, slowly. “I'm not going to tell you to go back right now. I'm not going to tell you what to do either way. It's just a thought. I've known Raphael for a long time, you know. Maybe I can talk to him. At least arrange a way for you to have an actual conversation.”

 

Simon thinks about that. He knows Magnus does have a point. Hell, what the warlock is saying out loud is nothing different from what Simon has been thinking for the past few days, and yet – even if he was to talk to Raphael. What would he even say? There is no excuse for what Simon did. _'Sorry for betraying you, I'm just more loyal to my old friends than I am to you, no offense?'_

 

“Simon? You still there?”

 

“Oh. Yes, just thinking. Maybe you do have a point.”

 

“Of course I do,” Magnus says, feigning hurt. “So what now?”

 

“I will think about it,” Simon promises. “If I do get the chance to talk to Raphael, I wouldn't want to waste it on unsorted rambles. I will try to think of something a little more… convincing.”

 

“Sounds good enough. You have my number now, so just – give me a text or a call when you made up your mind, yes?”

 

“Yes.” Simon smiles a little, feeling something like actual hope for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

 

“Good. I'll be waiting.” With that, Magnus hangs up the phone. Simon stays sitting on the stairs, wheels turning. Talking to Raphael... If he does get a chance, will he be able to convince the other of taking him back into the Dumort? The thought feels forbidden, as if getting to hopeful would jinx it in a way.

 

But– _wait._ Simon grins suddenly, taking out his phone again before clicking on the call history. There it is, Magnus's unsaved number, and he clicks on it before sending the text.

 

 

**_[3.54]_** _Did you just call me “Simon” on the phone? So you do know my actual name..._

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

When Simon is walking on the way back to his garage an hour or so before sunrise, he wonders if his tiredness has reached a state where he's hallucinating – which would be an issue – or if he actually _is_ starting to see vampires from the clan seemingly everywhere, appearing in corners, standing a few feet away staring at him before turning around as soon as Simon catches their eye – which would be an even bigger issue.

 

The first time it happens, he isn't even that sure, and the man Simon thinks to recognize as Gregor turns around before he can get a good look at his face. Growing a little paranoid, Simon hurries down the street until he almost runs into a girl with long, curly black hair, like Anna's; and before he can apologize the girl ducks into a shadowy alley and is gone in the blink of an eye.

 

Simon almost runs the way back to his garage (as fast as his by now almost pounding head allows). Surely this is just him seeing things, being a little too paranoid in a night out alone in this sketchy neighborhood. Why would the vampires be watching him? Are they out to find him, kill him, present his head to Raphael as a proof of loyality?

 

He knows he shouldn't be using up his blood supplies anytime soon, but the first thing he does after locking the door firmly behind his back is sit on the couch, knees pulled up to his chin and another bottle full in a weak grasp. His hands are shaking a little. Simon drinks up fast.

 

The pounding of his head becomes a little weaker.

 

 

-

 

 

Logically, he tells himself later, when he's curled up on the couch with a crumpled up shirt as a makeshift pillow, it is not impossible to simply run into the vampires in any part of the city. Of course, them hanging out here out of all places – the shittiest neighborhood around, and then not just one, but two vampires hanging in one night – is pretty unlikely. But unlikely doesn't mean impossible. And as long as they aren't specifically after him, there's no need for Simon to become overly paranoid.

  
Maybe it was a coincidence. (Unlikely, the voice in his head reminds. Simon ignores it.)

 

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was a coincidence.

 

Simon doesn't know how many times he must repeat it to himself in his head before finally drifting off into a fitful sleep.

 

 

 

 

 -

 

 

 

 

_Raphael tells Simon about his determination to hunt down vampires. Many of his friends lost family in the war, he says, some recently lost siblings that have gone missing all of a sudden – he and his friends want to investigate, do something good for everyone._

 

_They're on their way back to the ominious hotel building, stomachs full of a good breakfast and warm coffee. Simon had barely remembered what that feels like._

 

“ _Vampires aren't real,” he says. Raphael lets out a noise that can only be described as a_ snort.

 

“Then how do you explain what you saw in that kitchen yesterday?”

 

“I don't know.” Simon bites his lip, shaking his head in confusion. “That was weird, I admit it. But vampires? Maybe we ran into some messed up cult meeting. I wouldn't immediately go for the paranormal explanation.”

 

“ _What?” Simon looks over at him when Raphael doesn't respond. “They aren't real.” He remembers his father talking to him about this when the stories first came up, the stories about bad people going around stealing children and eating them alive. They're the devil's people, he had said. Wicked folk, who don't go to church. Simon remembers shuddering at the stories, and his father asking him if he still wishes he could skip mass sometimes. Simon remembers shaking his head violently. 'Good', his father had said. 'Now off to bed.'_

 

_He now knows they were stories, ones to keep him a good son his parents could be proud of, and he knows they were all full of shit. Stories parents like his made up to make sure their children behave._

 

_Raphael snorts again. It doesn't sound amused. “Two weeks ago,” he starts, “James's little sister went out to play with her friends after school. We were supposed to keep an eye on them, make sure they don't get themselves into trouble – she is a little troublemaker, just like her brother – and after two hours or so, we decided to go get some milkshakes and leave them alone. They were just playing catch on the playground, and there were a few other kids with their moms and all, so nothing for us to worry about, right?_

 

“ _When we returned, not even half an hour later – the entire playground was wiped empty. No one there. Not Poppy, not her friends, not even one of the moms. They were just gone. Of course, we went crazy searching the entire neighborhood. We asked every bypasser, they had seen nothing, eventually we rang at the doors of every house around the playground, to ask if anyone had seen anything unusual. Without success.”_

 

_Simon swallows hard. He has heard about that incident, it was on the front of a paper he'd found abandoned on a park bench not too long ago. “I am so sorry to hear that your friend's sister was one of them. Really. The.. the paper said it was probably a kidnappper –”_

 

“ _That's not all,” Raphael continues, giving Simon a serious look. “They didn't stay missing. Not all of them.”_

 

That _is new information. Simon looks up in surprise. The paper had talked about kids and their mothers going missing, nothing about any returns. “What happened?” He almost whispers._

 

“ _A few days passed” Raphael looks straight ahead now, but his eyes are wide, staring into nowhere as if he could see it happening in front of his very eyes. “There was this little girl. A friend of Poppy's, I'd never even known her name. We were out walking the streets around the playground again. James was set on finding his sister, and of course we were there to help him search, and that's when we saw her._

 

“ _She was just sitting on the swings, calmly, and at first none of us could believe it. Thought we were imagining things. It was James who called out to her eventually. She turned around to face us...” Raphael shudders now, shaking his head as if trying to get rid of the image. “Her face was full of blood. Dripping from her chin, smudging her mouth, and oh, her dress was stained with it. She ran off before any one of us could do anything else, gone so fast no one could see where to.”_

 

_A shiver is going all over Simon's back, imagining what Raphael is describing in all seriousness. There's no hint of a joke in his voice, no uncertainty, just calm, heavy honesty._

 

“ _We saw a vampire that day. And not just any vampire. We saw a classmate of my sister's friend, turned into that… monster. And we swore that day–“ Raphael stops, hand coming up to grab Simon's shoulder as his eyes find his, expression serious and full of determination – “we swore that we would find them. We swore that we would put an end to this.”_

 

_Simon swallows. Raphael smiles then, just barely, as he turns back to continue walking. “You don't have to believe me, I know that. Maybe you don't, and I would understand. I would understand if you didn't want to come with me at all anymore, knowing my plan. But I know what I saw. And I know that I can't just do nothing. Which is why I brought you home with me. And which is why I'm going back to that place. As long as the vampires are out there, no one is safe.” He grins then, weakly, looking back at Simon with his eyebrows raised. “Especially not someone as hungry and careless as you.”_

 

 

 

 

_To Simon's surprise, Raphael doesn't lead the way back to the Dumort. Instead, he takes a turn to the right and then another, and then one to the left, and then after probably ten or twenty minutes or so, they find themselves standing in the middle of an old junkyard._

 

_For a brief second, Simon wonders if the other has finally snapped and thought of a good place to kill Simon and hide the body – or at least the place looks ideal for that purpose. Piles and piles of garbage on either side of the field, an old, holey fence all around, and no houses or any other signs of population in sight._

 

“ _Another vampire hideout?” he tries, looking around varily. Raphael actually_ laughs _at that. (A real laugh, not just some short, amused chuckle.)_

 

“ _No. That hideout belongs to us.” He steps up on a pile of tires then, raising a hand before shouting: “It's alright, guys, you can come out! He belongs to me, he's not a threat.”_

 

 

_A short, chubby boy is the first Simon sees, coming out from behind an old car wreck. He has red, curly hair and red cheeks, and his expression is friendly as he approaches the two of them. “Finally. We thought you wouldn't show up at all.”_

 

_It's directed at Raphael, who now jumps back down from the tires and gives the boy a clap on the shoulder. “Hi, Mark. Sorry about that. I brought addition to the team, though.”_

 

_He then halts, giving Simon a questioning look. “Or not. It's still up to him to decide whether or not he wants to stick around.”_

 

“ _I do,” Simon confirms, shrugging awkwardly. He doesn't really know what it is he's agreeing to – joining Raphael's clique of friends? Hunting down vampires? (Or whatever it is they encountered in that hotel. Simon doesn't take Raphael for a liar, and he can't deny that everything he himself has seen so far is on a pretty high level of weird. Vampires or not, there is_ something _going on, that he knows for sure.) And in weird realization, Simon finds that he doesn't really mind doing either._

 

“ _Uh huh,” Mark says, directing his smile at Simon. “I'm Mark, by the way. And you are…?”_

 

“ _Simon.” He waves a little, returning the smile._

 

“ _Raphael, Raphael.” That's a female voice, coming from behind them, and Simon turns around in confusion just as Raphael sighs next to him. “And his speciality, bringing handsome boys to our gang meetings.”_

 

“ _For the last time, Pam, don't call it a 'gang'. That sounds ridiculous.” That's another voice, following the girl's, and soon Simon finds himself surrounded by five, maybe six people around his own age, coming out from behind car wrecks or garbage piles and eyeing him with a range of expressions from open and friendly to wary and diffident._

 

_Raphael seems to notice his discomfort, because he takes a protective step in front of Simon, holding his hand up in a wave. “Sorry I'm late, guys. This is Simon. We met in the Dumort.”_

 

_There's a murmur going around the junkyard now, faces on Simon turning more curious, and he shifts a little awkwardly. “Hi, Raphael's friends,” he mumbles, because he doesn't know what else to do._

 

_It's a tall, handsome looking guy who speaks up first, looking at Raphael with an expression that can only be disapproval. “Raphael,” he says. “Couldn't you have at least talked to us before bringing a random guy here? Pamela is not wrong.”_

 

_Raphael crosses his arms in front of his chest. “No, James. As I said, I met him in the Dumort. That was yesterday. He needed a place to stay, so he slept at mine, and I couldn't exactly leave him on the couch all day while I'm gone.”_

 

_The tall boy – James, apparently (so the guy whose sister was turned, Simon takes a mental note) – sighs. “Can we trust him?”_

 

“ _I ran into him trying to steal food in their kitchen,” Raphael says slowly and Simon blushes when he hears a few giggles at that. “So yes, we can trust him. He's way too clueless to be a threat.”_

 

_Simon would be offended if it wasn't the truth._

 

 

“ _Guys,” another girl says then, voice mediatory. “Can't you see we're making the poor boy uncomfortable?” Her hair is long, and red with soft curls,_ and she reminds Simon of someone… he just can't seem to put a name to it – and – something is shifting –

 

 

 

 

“ _Woah, dude, you okay?” The worried voice belongs to Mark, his face suddenly appearing centimeters in front of Simon's._

 

“ _Huh? What?”_

 

_Mark blinks. “You totally zoned out there. Are you okay?”_

 

_The boy's hand is resting on his forehead, and Simon blinks in confusion, slowly taking in everything around him. He is sitting on a barrel, head leaning against something… soft… Simon jerks up in surprise as he recognizes his head-rest as Raphael's shoulder, of all things. The other is sitting on another barrel next to him, looking at Simon with a mix of worry and confusion, and Simon rubs the blush off his cheeks. “Yeah, yeah. I'm fine.”_

 

_He now can see that everyone is sitting in a circle, each on their own barrel, looking at Simon in open curiosity._

 

“ _This has happened before,” Raphael mumbles._

_  
“What?”_

 

“ _You zoning out for bits. But never… like this.”_

 

“ _Dude, you just fainted on us,” Mark adds. “Are you sure you're okay?”_

 

“ _What exactly were you doing in that hotel?” The voice Simon now recognizes as James's sounds sharp and mistrustful. “Raphael, if that kid you brought got himself infected, or something–“_

 

“ _This isn't the damn Zombie apocalypse,” Raphael interrupts sharply. “And it's not the time to discuss this. Can't you see he's just coming to himself?”_

 

_Simon's head feels a little strange, but as he's waking up more, he starts feeling better again. Not nauseous or unwell at all. Weird. If he really fainted just there, why? He can't remember blacking out, but not getting here to the circle of barrels either. Weird._

 

“ _Maybe,” a quiet voice now says, “we should just introduce ourselves for now. It's kind of rude to have Simon sit in a group of strangers discussing what should be done with him, don't you think?”_

 

_Simon gives the source of the voice – a calm, almost bored-looking guy with a thin nose and high cheekbones – a thankful smile. Raphael next to him relaxes a little._

 

“ _A good idea,” James agrees finally. The tall blonde looks straight at Simon now, and he wonders for a second if this is the first time for him to actually direct words at Simon himself. “I'm James.”_

 

“ _Simon,” Simon replies with a weary smile. “Nice to meet you.”_

 

_The uncomfortable tension filling the air remains for another second or two before the redhead girl from before clears her throat. Simon looks over at her, sitting on the barrel next to James's._

 

“ _I'm Dorothy.” She smiles, hand reaching out to take that of the bored guy, who had speaked up for Simon earlier. “Nathan here is my boyfriend. It's nice to meet you, Simon.”_

 

_Nathan, or Nathanael, as he introduces himself, is next in line. Then comes Pamela, then Kathleen. Declan, an asian-looking boy with a buzz cut and stones on his earlobes, asks Simon how he did manage to run into Raphael in the 'vampire shack'._

 

_Simon shrugs. “It was raining, I was looking for food and shelter. Raphael found me in the kitchen, trying to raid the fridge.”_

 

_Declan chuckles. “Did you?”_

 

“ _What?”_

 

“ _Raid the fridge?”_

 

“ _I tried,” Simon admits. “Though Raphael tried to pull me away.”_

 

_Declan laughs at that. “Well, learning by doing, my friend.” Directed at Raphael, he adds: “So you did sneak in on your own again.” His tone sounds more serious this time. Raphael sighs._

 

“ _I wasn't going to. I was passing by on my way back home, decided to take a look, and– well.” He turns his head to look at Simon. “Then I heard_ someone _trying to talk some guts into himself in the kitchen and couldn't exactly leave just like that.”_

 

_The group chuckles, and Simon feels the heat rise into his cheeks. So Raphael did hear that part._

 

“ _You know this is dangerous,” Mark says now, expression thoughtful. He's giving Raphael a concerned look and the latter nods._

_  
“Yes. Of course it is. That's why we're doing this, isn't it?”_

 

_Mark shrugs. “By now, the vampires living in there have definitely noticed the sneaking around. I don't think they'll just tolerate it in the long run.”_

 

“ _If there even are any vampires in there,” Dorothy remarks. “It could just be a place for them to store their things for all we know.”_

 

_The conversation carries on into a slow, then soon growing more heated discussion about whether or not vampires are actually living in the hotel, whether or not they should be spied on and whether or not Raphael is stupid for just going in there on his own._

 

_Simon's head hurts a little, and he isn't sure if he's already managed to remember all their names anyway – not his strongest forte, sadly, and he wouldn't want to embarrass himself by addressing someone with a wrong one – so he stays out of it._

 

 

_When Raphael finally gets up, hands in the pockets of his jeans and a satisfied look on his face, Simon zones back into reality. “Huh?”, he asks, watching as everyone gets up one after another, grabbing their bags and shrugging on jackets. “Are we doing something?”_

 

“ _We're going home,” Raphael says. “Declan suggested to go for some burgers, but I don't think that's a good idea.” He eyes Simon then, a glint of worry in his guarded expression. “After you just blacked out and all.”_

 

“ _No, wait!” Simon hurries to get up, grabbing Raphael's arm before he can think twice about the gesture, “I like burgers.”_

 

_The laugh coming from behind them so loudly Simon almost jumps breaks the glint, and Raphael's expression turns into one of annoyance. “Shut up, Declan. None of us is a doctor, but burgers will still exist after Simon has had some proper sleep.”_

 

“ _Protective,” Declan remarks with a chuckle. “How touching.”_

 

_Raphael just rolls his eyes, and Simon follows him awkwardly as the other quickens his pace. “I told you, I feel okay. No need to worry, I can take care of myself.”_

 

“ _I believe you,” Raphael sighs. “And I'm not stopping you from going with them, if you want to. I'm not your mom,” he adds with the hint of a smirk. “But as I said, we can still do that tomorrow. For now, I want you to get some rest – and I want to get some stuff done.” The last bit is said almost in a whisper, the other looking around in caution, and Simon's eyes widen a little._

 

“ _What, on your own?”_

 

_Raphael does chuckle now. “Look at you, hanging around the guys for not even an hour and you already sound like Mark. And weren't you the one_ just _saying you could take care of yourself? Do you think I can't?”_

 

_Simon can't help but admit that Raphael does have a point there. Sure, he still doesn't support the idea of him continuing to work on his own – vampires or not – but at least Raphael isn't helpless._

 

_Still. “If you're thinking of going back to that place, forget the part about me getting sleep. I'm coming with you.”_

_  
Raphael turns to look at him in exasparation. “Seriously now?”_

 

“ _Yes. After all, being busy rescuing me is what made you lose your little stick.” Simon shrugs, stubbornly returning Raphael's stare. “I'm coming with you.”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you want to skip this, here's your chance. It's not too late to go back.”
> 
> Simon considers this. Here is his opportunity to pass, presented to him without judgement, without a hint of disdain in Raphael's voice. He's just looking at Simon, waiting for a reply, and the latter sighs. 
> 
> “Of course I'm not going back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so, all I can say is... I'm sorry, guys. This took a while.  
> It's a shorter chapter, but it had to be, and the following one is 
> 
> A) longer  
> B) already at my fingertips. The wait wont be as long this time, I promise. I'm back for this, for real this time.

 

 

 

“ _So, what brings you to New York?”_

 

_They're walking down streets in the rain again, Raphael's watch cautious on him, as if expecting Simon to drop dead by every other step._

 

“ _My two feet.” It's supposed to sound like a joke of some sorts, but what's meant to be a careless chuckle comes out as a pathetic huff. Simon cringes as Raphael looks at him in what awfully resembles worry; again._

 

“ _Don't give me that,” he mumbles and forces himself to a weak smile. “My parents couldn't stand me, I couldn't stand my parents, so here I am. It's better that way.”_

 

_Raphael doesn't respond. It must sound weird to him, Simon realizes, hearing someone talk so lowly of their own family. For all he has seen, everyone in Raphael's family is extremely close and friendly with each other._

 

“ _So you're the oldest, huh?” he then picks up, a lame attempt at leading the conversation into another direction. Raphael looks up in surprise._

 

“ _How did you tell?”_

_  
“Well,” Simon grins, thankfully taking the other's willingness to drop the subject. “Didn't see an older brother at dinner last night. Also – you do have this oldest sibling vibe.”_

 

“ _Now what's that supposed to mean?”_

 

“ _You just. Well. You seem to have this urge to look after everyone, protect them, you know? Yet you're the one to go out on dangerous adventures on his own.”_

 

_Raphael laughs at the last part. “Dangerous adventures, hm?”_

 

“ _Am I wrong?” Simon gestures around, eyes roaming the empty streets, growing narrower and emptier the farther they walk. “We're out here roaming sketchy alleys, on our way to a sketchy house. Pretty adventurous, don't you think?”_

 

_Raphael rolls his eyes. This expression, Simon is coming to learn, doesn't mean that the other is truly annoyed. So he grins. “Seriously, though. What is your plan? Go in, grab the wood, come out again? No offense, but I'm sure you could just make another one with a knife and some patience.”_

 

_Raphael shrugs, looking over at Simon with an unreadable expression. “It's not about the plock. I wouldn't mourn its loss. I mean, if there are any vampires living in that hotel – which I'm pretty sure they do – I don't think they would let a weapon like that lie around in their own home anyway.”_

 

“ _So what's the point in going back there then?”_

 

_Raphael stops, looking at Simon for a long time without a word, until the latter clears his throat awkwardly. “What?”_

 

“ _Dios, you really are helpless.” His voice full of feigned disappointment, yet there's the hint of an amused smirk on his face, and Simon crosses his arms in front of his chest, giving Raphael an offended glare._

 

“ _What? What is it? Am I supposed to read your mind now?”_

 

_The other sighs. “Look around.”_

 

_Simon does, eyeing the street they're on, tall, cold facades and growing puddles forming on concrete. He shrugs. “No idea where we are, sorry to disappoint.”_

 

“ _That is,” Raphael confirms with a smirk, “because we haven't been here before. We are not on our way to the Dumort. Well observed, at least.”_

 

“ _Wait, we are not?” Simon repeats, confused, picking up his pace again when Raphael continues to walk. “But didn't you say–“_

 

“ _I_ said _I wanted to get stuff done. But did you think we were just going back to the hotel like this, a day after we almost ran into one of them? We're unarmed, and they are_ vampires, _Simon. No way. We will, but not today.”_

 

“ _But the plock!”_

 

_Raphael turns to look at Simon, amusement glinting in his eyes. “As you said, with a knife and some patience…”_

 

“ _Wow.”_

 

“ _What?”_

 

“ _Wow.” Simon shakes his head. “You could've said something earlier.”_

 

_Raphael laughs. “You'd have figured sooner or later.”_

 

“ _Again. Wow. So, where_ are _we going then?”_

 

_Raphael reaches into his back pocket then, pulling out a tiny, neatly folded piece of paper, and a pencil, broken in half. “Here.”_

 

_He holds both out to Simon, who takes it, curiosity piqued. Quickly unfolding the paper, smudged pencil stains and fuzzy, outworn paper folds threatening to rip apart, Simon finds himself face to face with… Something. Confusedly, he looks up at Raphael with an eyebrow raised. There's some lines drawn on the paper, arrows, boxes, but messily and in no understandable order. “Is this some sort of secret code, or abstract art, or–“_

 

_Raphael sighs. “It's a map,” he explains. “Of the city.”_

 

“ _A… um,” Simon says, slowly. “No offense, but–“ he looks back at the piece of paper in his hands, unsurely tracing the messy lines with a finger._

 

“ _Yes, I know,” Raphael sighs. He had looked proud before, now his shoulders sag in annoyance. “It doesn't look great. But that's not the actual thing! I have one at home, one that's not as messy. I just have this one with me for when I'm outside. It marks every place in the neighborhood we suspect of being a vampire hideout, or otherwise connected to their clan in any way. We are here–” Raphael stops, grabbing Simon's wrist holding the paper steady with one hand and tracing a finger over the messy lines with the other, searching. “Yes. Here.”_

 

_The finger stops then, pointing at a specific point on the ( – if Simon squints, he can recognize it as a – ) map and looks up with a proud expression. “This line,” Raphael continues, tracing it, “is the street we are on right now. This over there–“ he points to a slightly larger, scribbly circle, a good count of messy lines away from them, “is the Dumort. And thiswe're about to go–“ Raphael halts, squinting at the piece of paper in confusion._

 

“ _Huh?”_

 

“ _Oh.” His hand grasping Simon's wrist comes up, own thumb nudging his where it's holding the paper in place._

 

_Heat rises to Simon's cheeks. “Uh, what– oh” He makes an awkward noise then, just now understanding the gesture, and moves the finger from its spot, a little hastily. And there it is. Another circle like the one symbolizing the hotel Dumort, right where Simon had been holding his thumb. He clears his throat. “– here,” Raphael finishes, lowering his own hand from where it's been hovering on Simon's with a hint of a smile._

 

“ _Uh.” Simon tilts his head. Well. It is kind of impressive, he must admit. (Not being socially awkward. The map.) Even if it looks pretty terrible. So Raphael doesn't sneak around the city in hopes of actually finding and facing a vampire, no, he's trying to develop an actual plan._

 

“ _Neat,” he says._

_  
Raphaels raises his eyebrows. “Neat?”_

 

“ _Pretty neat.”_

 

 

 

_-_

 

 

 

_In daylight, the building doesn't look exactly intimidating. It's just an old warehouse of some sorts, the sprawling facade with its partly cracked and shattered windows making it look cold and uninviting. Still, standing in front of the high, heavy door, there's an uncomfortable weight pressing down on Simon's guts. This might not be a great idea after all._

 

“ _This is pretty dumb,” he then says, making Raphael halt and turn to face him, questioningly._

 

“ _What is?”_

 

“ _Just walking in. I mean, if any vampires are in there, what makes you think they won't wake up and kill us both?” It has been on Simon's mind since earlier, realizing how Raphael didn't seem to regard the danger of becoming a target for the vampires himself at all. “Hell, what if one of them is awake right now and can hear us talk out here? Aren't you even a little bit scared?”_

 

_Raphael sighs then, barely audible, and turns completely to face Simon. “Yes,” he says, honestly. “I'm pretty scared.”_

 

_Simon blinks, taken aback at the honest confession. “Yeah, then… why go in?”_

 

_Raphael shakes his head at that, expression serious. “That's_ why _I want to go in. Look– it would be pretty dumb_ not _to be scared. If you're going to be this stubborn about coming with,” he gives Simon a sharp look, “you should definitely be scared, too. But not let it keep you from going forward. Let it fuel you. Listen, this has to be done. We need to find a way to get rid of the vampires, and if we don't do it, who else will?_

 

“ _And this is a chance. If, and only if, something was to happen to me, the map I'm making would still be there, on the desk in my room. I'd have let my life for a huge advantage for the others. But,” he then adds, giving Simon a serious look, “with this place here? It's extremely unlikely. I don't believe anyone's in there.”_

_It's so anticlimatic Simon has to snort involuntarily. “Very reassuring,” he mutters, though he can't help but feel the tiny hint of warmth at what was definitely meant to make him feel better about this whole situation. Raphael is not willing to risk Simon's life along with his own, that's – well,_ something, he supposes.

 

_And Raphael looks so convinced, so impressively determined and sure of what they are doing, that Simon can't help but feel a little… in awe. This..._ plan, _or if it can even be called that, sounds beyond awful, he must admit, there is no assurance of anything going right, and Raphael himself is admitting to being aware of the risks and dangers connected to it. Yet – he goes for it, drawing his maps, observing the places, is willing to risk his life for the sake of the cause._

 

_And, maybe for the first time since coming home with Raphael, Simon realizes how serious all of this is. Serious determination, serious risks, a serious plan with serious dangers._

_He looks up at Raphael, eyes wide in realization and unsureness, and Raphael returns it with a serious epxression. “If you want to skip this, here's your chance. It's not too late to go back.”_

 

_Simon considers this. Here is his opportunity to pass, presented to him without judgement, without a hint of disdain in Raphael's voice. He's just looking at Simon, waiting for a reply, and the latter sighs. “Of course I'm not going back. I admit, this is scary. And I don't think it's a wise idea to just walk into a place that could or could not be full of extremely dangerous, immortal beings. But I've already come up here. Might as well come inside.”_

 

 

 

_-_

 

 

 

“ _Still don't believe in vampires?”_

 

_They're back in Raphael's room, perched on his bed, backs against the wall. After leaving the warehouse, Simon had been a hundred percent convinced that Raphael was going to drag him off to the next point on his map. Instead, the other had lead the way back home, raising his eyebrows when Simon questioned him about it. ('I told you, I'm not risking another blackout.' – 'And I told you I'm fine!' – 'Yeah, sure, but if you do faint on me, who's the one who's going to have to drag your weight all the way back?') Yet the short visit to the warehouse had undeniably taken a toll on their usual banter, and the dry chuckle Simon had offered in response had been forced and exhausted._

 

_The warehouse had been, just as Raphael predicted, empty, save for – and Simon shudders thinking back to it – the remains of a body, soaked in a puddle of blood. He still feels the urge to throw up thinking back to it._

 

_Raphael had been serious and calm all throughout the time. Walking around the place with cautious, alert eyes, he hadn't even squinted at the sight of the half rotten, half_ missing _human body. He had just stared at it for a long time, expression serious, before closing his eyes in what Simon thought to be grief._

 

“ _I was praying,” Raphael had simply told him later. Simon hadn't known what to respond to that, so he hadn't at all._

 

_The point is, and that at least is good news – or as good as they can get, in a situation like this one – that the place had been empty and cold, and the body 'at least a week old'. Simon doesn't question how Raphael can tell things like these. The other seems like the type to have uncommon knowledge more than he does seem like a liar._

_  
“I don't think they actively use it,” Raphael now says thoughtfully, hunched over the sheet of paper in his lap. The actual map – which, to Simon's surprise, is a good tad bigger, and way neater and better to navigate than the smudged one from Raphael's pocket. It even has some street names written on it. Simon can recognize the Friendly Maple and, as if magically, feels his stomach rumble in alarm. He blushes when Raphael looks up from the map. “Hungry?”_

 

“ _Uh. It's just. Huh. I guess?”_

 

“ _You guess.” Raphael shakes his head, folding the map in half, and Simon gives him a questioning look._

_  
“What are you doing?”_

 

“ _Well.” The black-haired boy sighs then, turning to look at Simon before standing up and walking over to his desk, carefully putting the map into one of its drawers. “It's been a long day, and after this, I think we could both use a burger.” And when his amused smirk turns a bit softer at the sight of Simon's face lighting up at the mention of food, immediately jumping to follow Raphael in getting up from the bed, it's not because he finds this somewhat adorable._

 

_Anything but that._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The girl working night shift at the small, somewhat rundown twenty-four-hour store three streets down smiles when Simon approaches the check-out for the third time that night, dropping the handful of markers on the counter with a tired expression (his permanent expression, at this point).

 

“Do you like seeing me so much or are you just a really, really forgetful person?,” she teases as she's bagging his purchase. Simon barely manages a non-commital chuckle to humor her through the pounding of his head; which, to his disdain, hadn't gotten the slightest bit better after waking up from fourteen hours – fourteen hours! – of sleep.

 

“Student life,” he lies, lamely, as he takes the bag from her hand in exchange for the items' total. If she knew what it really is he collectively throughout the night has bought a large notepad, several pens and markers and, in weak hope, some aspirin for, she probably wouldn't be smiling at him right now but much rather calling a mental institute.

 

The truth is, Simon needs answers. And he's not going to get them by sitting on his ass in the garage every night, thinking about his bizarre dreams. He needs something he can put his finger on, literally so. He hates to admit it, but dream Raphael and his map for the city had given him an actually useful idea. So, as soon as he had woken up, Simon had went outside to collect the items he needed to draw a map of his dream world.

 

So, when he gets back after his third, and hopefully final store run for the night, Simon enters the small late-night cafe at the front-facing side of the building his garage is located by, finding a table by a corner before taking the notepad out of his backpack. He can't stand sitting inside that garage for longer than absolutely necessary anymore, and along with an actual table to sit at and work on, the small cafe offers a nice change of scenery to the blank, windowless walls he's gotten so accustomed to over the past few days. So Simon leans back after placing the expected order – a cup of black tea, something he has discovered his stomach to be capable of dealing with – and stares at the few words and connections on the sheet of paper now spread on the table in front of him. In the middle, there's his own name; Simon. Next to it, in an only slightly smaller bubble, Raphael's name is written, the line connecting them reading _friends…?_ ina messy scribble.

 

Connected to Raphael's name are two sub-groups: His family and the group of friends Simon had been introduced to yesterday – well, in yesterday's dream, that is.

 

_Mother: Guadalupe; long, black hair; nice smile; Raphael's nose,_ the messy scribble reads. Simon scoffs as he puts brackets around the last part. It's not like he can remember ever paying an excessive amount of attention to Raphael's nose – or his mother's, for that matter – but he can't bring himself to scratch the information either. Something inside him tells him that it's true, that it's a fact that he, Simon, knows. He has long stopped questioning this new pond of knowledge that has manifested seemingly out of nowhere in his brain, especially since now that it's there, Simon can't remember ever not knowing all these tiny details about his ex clan leader.

 

The question remaining now, though, is: Do any of these _facts_ actually correspond to reality?

There's only one way, or rather, one person Simon can think of to confirm or deny this: Magnus. Having known Raphael for a long time – the warlock himself had said so – Simon could very well imagine him knowing about the vampire's mother, or one of the many other facts Simon has been and still is coming to learn about him with each dream passed. He makes a mental note to text, or maybe even call Magnus later that night – earlier in the morning, at a more reasonable time to call someone's phone – unwilling to disturb at four am. While he has no idea about Magnus's sleep pattern, if he even has one at all, he doesn't want to repeat the embarrassment of calling the warlock's phone only to have an out of breath and mildly annoyed Alec Lightwood answer the phone, demanding to know who he was and what he wanted. Granted, Magnus was the one to blame for having Simon's number saved under _Mona <3, _but Simon didn't want to be included in any sort of relationship drama. (Though, admittedly, the blush on Alec's face as he came to apologize for snapping at him the next morning – Simon had still been staying at the institute, back then – had actually been somewhat endearing. Simon hadn't known the stoic Shadowhunter was even capable of such an expression, and when Simon had to sit through a mild scolding for calling people in the middle of the night after all, it wasn't as annoying as it usually would be. And when he couldn't help the small _don't worry, I'm sure you're the only one Magnus wants to spend his nights with_ under his breath _,_ who could blame him?)

 

Finishing his tea and adding some names to the chart along with little doodles to match – he frowns as he uses a red marker to draw some curls around the smiley face next to Dorothy's name – Simon can't shake the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach telling him that there's a big chunk of information missing here – a detail about the dreams he just can't put his finger on, something he might be forgetting despite his otherwise so clear memory about everything.

 

Parts of the dream are blurry, unusually so – like most of the meeting with Raphael's friends. He remembers the redhead girl, smiling kindly at him, then being overwhelmed by dizziness out of nowhere, falling backwards into a pair of arms quick to react and catch him against a steady body – he blushes at this particular odd memory sticking out to him, stupidly so. The flutter of warmth in his stomach, glowing on his cheeks in vague embarrassment peaking through nausea as a worried Raphael moves to wrap his arms securingly around Simon's weak, unsteady weight, suddenly sparks up again with strange intensity.

 

He freezes then. That memory, he realizes while turning the pages in his notepad, feels fresh. Finding the notes on his last dream – recapturing the events of the day as short yet detailed as he could manage – Simon can confirm that there is no mention of Raphael muttering to him in a low, concerned voice,

 

“ _Hey, crap, can you – try to walk? – yeah, like this, just lean on me. I'm getting you to sit down right here, come on, it's okay, I got you–“_

 

His sudden spark of memory is interrupted by a sudden, even sharper spark of – pain. Filling his head, making his vision spin, Simon's head is back to pounding, pounding, pounding. Pounding.

 

He grabs the cup if tea so tight he's afraid it's going to shatter, downing the last rest in one big gulp. It helps with the throbbing ache, but only slightly so, and Simon lets his head drop to the cafe table as the feeling ebbs away, painfully slow. The image of Raphael watching him in cautious worry remains, his arm tight and supporting around Simon, so close he can actually smell the other. Simon sighs as he shakes his head in an attempt to cast away the memories along with the nausea they brought.

 

All of this isn't getting him anywhere but slowly, yet surely, to his end. Simon grits his teeth as he uses what feels like his last strength of the night to lift his head from the cool surface of the table, folding the dream map back into his notebook before storing it in his backpack.

 

He sends a tired glance around the late-night cafe as he rummages through his backpack to bring out some cash for the tea, unsurprised to find that out of the two only other visitors, no one seems to pay any attention to him. One, like Simon, is sitting alone by her table by the windows – Simon feels a nervous pang in his stomach as he notices the color of the sky outside taking on a lighter shade already, is cue to get home soon – while the other, a young man with a beer in his hands, is standing by the counter, talking to the bartender.

 

Just when he gets up to walk over there, money in hand to pay for his tea, the door of the small cafe creaks open.

Simon halts, eyes darting towards the entrance, not sure at first what about the new arrival puts him to freeze – too persistent is the nausea in his head, and the smell of Raphael somehow refusing to leave along with it. It seems to be everywhere, in fact, throbbing along with his headache, and as the figure, shapeless under their hooded jacket, makes its way towards his table, it only seems to intensify –

 

“Dios,” Raphael says. “You look–“

 

Simon doesn't wait to hear the end of that sentence. Without a word, without a breath, he bolts out and away from here.

 


End file.
